Why, oh, why do I struggle so much with birthdays? It’s not the getting older that bothers me. In fact I’m always amazed at how NOT old I am in years… I’ll be 35 tomorrow.
I wish I didn’t. I wish I could be all – oh I love myself so much, I’m my own best friend… because I’m happy… and I’m so happy to be the centre of attention rather than a neurotic mess. I’m SUPPOSED to be grateful and enjoy feeling celebrated… But I feel awkward – people are being fake nice because they’re supposed to be. I have to be grateful, even if I’m disappointed. I want every bell and whistle… and I want nothing. I don’t know…
I was a forceps delivery. I struggle with being here, being human, being me quite a lot of the time.
I think your birthday brings with it your birthing journey each year: do I really want to be here? Hmmm, not sure about this whole mad world… let me curl up somewhere warm and safe… What the fuck’s happening here? They’re pulling me out by my head… not sure about this thing anymore… it’s a one way ticket, you say. Oh shit. I’d like to talk to someone about a refund. This is NOT what I signed up for.
I’m still here.
Looks like I’d better make the most of it so.
Still not sure about it though. And the world’s not so sure about me either. We’ll hobble along together, an uneasy fit.
So yes, it’s my birthday, just DON’T, whatever you do, make a big fuss or I’ll burst into tears. Mr Dreaming Aloud assures me he has cancelled the marching bands… hopefully I won’t cry over the cake.
I find it easier to celebrate my work than me, so there is almost half price off my books on Amazon Kindle.
And there may be Pimms and cake with strawberries and cream tomorrow… bring on the sunshine, inside and out.